


Of Ash and Ruin

by Kasan_Soulblade



Series: Tales of Abyss archive:  All My Canon Works [6]
Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Asch centric, Asch/Darkwings friendship, Flash Fic, Gen, mainly pre game, pre game, writing a snippit for each tech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a story... behind everything.  </p><p>These are a series of snap shots centered about techs, how they came to be, were used.... and whatever whim related to them I could dream up.  Tentatively related to the "Family of Idiots" time line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1-5

Of Ash and Ruin, part1

1) Fang Blade:

It was hard to get the sheer height into the jump. It took time, effort, and more effort. He spent months practicing, training his body to learn the human limits than more time was spent to learn how to bypass them. Months of jumping and leaping ("little rabbit" smirked the servants at first, hiding smiles and banter behind a shield of raised hand, oblivious of how the sounds slipped through. Ignorant of the sheer determination within the boy. "Just a boy playing at boy's games." "Boys will be boys." engorged on cliché, basking upon those wisdom, they looked on, never understanding), with his sword and without he trained. Knowing in his bones that he had to get the height just right. Scaring one column in the salle (a shadow side, so it was less likely he'd get caught) he marked his progress with the slash of a knife, when the leap met its peak. Finally, one bold summer day, he got it right. The jump that was. His success, long sought after, never imagined to be complete, was overshadowed by one horrid fact that he landed wrong. So wrong was his descent that he managed to break both legs upon impact.

Mother had gone into hysterics. Even though he smiled and assured her as the seventh fonists did their work that he was "fine" and "it didn't hurt at all".

Father... was Father. Distant, indifferent, and oblivious. Even as Duke Fon Fabre rebuked his charge in the silted language nobles favor his blocky shadow licked up a pillar, a foundation whose scars were too small to be apparent to all save the most keen observer.

2) Havoc strike

Not part of the Albert-style, that cruel descent. Boot leading, angled just _so_ to get the upraised face with the heel... All in all the teche was perfectly designed to do maximum damage to a mundane, pedestrian, opponent. If asked, the technique had been inspired by watching Lord-Father Fon fabre's hawks at the hunt. At least that's what he would have said if asked. Actually, the idea had come to him while watching Abyss Man.

Not that he'd ever tell.

3) Raging blast

Something like hyper resonance on the smallest of scales. It was a contradiction, an impossibility clasped in the palm of one's had, but too deadly to be gripped, too lethal not to be _restrained_. Still, there was a moment before the red tinged.. aura broke apart releasing its essence that he always shivered. Skittering starlets of crimson would scatter after the breaking, then hand in the air, winking out like baby stars. There was a heat to the heatless furnace, a rock still stability to the endless coiling. A heaviness to the air where the waiting explosion demurely hovered.

And with the lightest thoughts and darkest intents it cracked open, pouring forth it's lethal force.

Breaking thought air and atoms, ripping and tearing with... light and that with makes light dissolve.

Little wonder he hesitated before release, little wonder at all.

4) Rending thrust

Though it was untraditional and left him horribly open, shamefully so actually, and the first few times he tangled his sword with his exuberant poising he practiced it again and again. The idea and its delivery shifted a bit, and once it complied and worked he practiced until mastered. As for why, the why he would muddle thought an unknown willing to endure the harsh dissatisfaction at first to find a compromise.

Well it might have something to do with maturity.

Perhaps it has something to do with budding ("Thank Lorelei, at last!", he can hear all of his detractors, enemies, and friends alike cry out at that ideal thought) patience.

Or it might have had to do with the much anticipated sight. The twisting of expression from kill or kill mentality to sheer dumbfoundedness as instead of running into the Bloody's blade they meet his fist instead.

It's probably the last. Defiantly the last.

5) Steel

Eyes closed, hands clenched, he dug deep, hard, and fast, plumbing the fire, the crucible, of his soul. Coming up with hate and hurt he opened his eyes, a soft snarl curled his lips, and murder was etched in the depths of his emerald eyes. The first time Largo sees it he cringes, daunted by the berserker’s' rage that's housed in this "mere" boy.

 


	2. 5-10

Of Ash and Ruin, part2

6) Demon fist

After reading of it in a book (a forbidden book, soon after Father learned of the incident) he'd tied it. Running the words together as quick as he could, sweeping one first up as quick and sure as he could...

( He'd punch though the air, give heaven a black eye. Better watch out, he'd hit Lorelei in the gut if he didn't hold back...)

Still he'd done it. And his arm hurt form the effort, ached something fierce from trying, if truth be told. And Guy, his hesitant audience of one, had laughed. It hurt, though he'd never tell, it hurt and his eyes stung. Face matching his hair he'd bolted, ignoring the slightly choked "Come back!" from his playmate.

He'd bolted.

And so a little while later, Ramdas found him. The fires between then and now had fled his face, crept up his cheeks and like unruly thieves they slipped past eyes to slither down his face. Thus was the state Remdas found him in, he found his "young master" hiding amongst a pair of old fon tech canons. The weapons were so old and battered (and never mind the shine of polish they were scarred and scars can't be scrubbed away no matter the effort) they were declared "historical" and "harmless" and set up as a matched set in the drawing room. Amongst the war-like "decorations" Ramdas crept up upon whimpering charge, torn between task and station.

Finally, resolute for one of the first times in his life, Ramdas approached. Bypassing barriers of rank and station he approached his Young Lord, even indulging in his unanticipated-by-the-Score impulse daring to lay one hand on the crying boy's shoulder.

"Sometimes, Young Master, we must hold faith and talent with patience."

Sniffling, recognizing the voice but not quite getting the words, the boy tried to gain some kind of composure. It failed of course. He was just a boy after all, one hurt and young enough that each hurt cut right to the heart. A tug was all it took, and the child pulled away from the steel he'd been crying against, grateful to curl against something soft, warm, human. Such were the instincts of the young. Soothing back the displaced red locks, Ramdas stroked the boys head until the crying had lost its biting edge.

"It didn't work the first time." Ramdas explained patiently to the air above the child's head. Starting with the obvious, the best place to start with anything. "Sometimes that happens. With time and practice, the corner stones of true talent, that will change." A pause, and as red streaked, green eyes looked up at him, their edges shimmering, Ramdas let his touch, that hesitant embrace, firm. In the grip of someone who was _sure_ the boy relaxed in full. Sniffling, leaning into that support. Steady was the soothing touch, and to that the boy found it in him to swallow down the last of his tears.

To that Ramdas chuckled, smiled even. Though it was by long and far the rarest of gestures to touch his face. Despite the chronic lack of practice he smiled well. Smiled warm. To that, the boy tried to smile back, and he succeeded.

"And that will, that force that makes you try again even though you failed... that's where the faith is, Young Master. You _know_ you will get something for trying. Even as do I. What you'll get, I can't say, I won't promise as to _what_ you'll get, but you'll get _something_."

7) Sonic Thrust

Though effective, often lethal, and quick, the Tech (an idea taken from fencing, carefully plagiarized so he could claim innocence if asked) had two flaws. One: his sword got stuck. A lot. Such was the nature of the long sword was that it was thicker than the foil, and that was the root cause of the first problem. As for number two, well number two was born in part of issue number one. It was so _messy_ cleaning out the blood from his clothes. Blood... and entails, (he learned about the latter after getting the "brilliant" idea that it might make it easier to guilt his blade into the body cavity of the deceased by dragging his sword down then out. Organs were softer than bone after all... The first time he did _that_ was the last as he's had blood, guts, and vomit to clean up that night.), left stains. Nasty, smelly stains that he could scrub out of his uniform with effort... but not his leather boots for some reason.

8) Sonic Blast

He used to call it "Super Sonic Thrust" once upon a time. Noir put that name to death after hearing him say it just once. Gently pulling him to one side and explaining that it sounded _wrong_ had been her first step. When he hadn't learned his lesson she'd let Urushi and York hear about his experiments in picking nominatives. Their teasing (course, involving more to do about then he ever wanted to learn about his masculinity) had spurred his creativity to new heights, and thus the new name came to be.

9) Guardian Field

Born of impulse (a mad impulse came over him in the middle of a battlefield while fonic artes and bestial claws were flying) crafted of contradiction. His blade tip was pointing _down_ of all things while a yeti was barreling down on him. (Instinct, ingrained, trained, _SCREAMING at him!_ Roll aside, get clear, strike back! Action: The closing of his eyes, the slowing of his franticly beating heart. Relax, deep breath. Let it all fall away...) it's white light (born of fonic writings crafted without the need to etch symbols on the snow. Symbol trailed after his sword as he swept it about him. Slow and sure, counter-clockwise, a dark-less shadow, born of the dying shade cast by his sword...) was soothing. Somehow the illumination made him think of home.. (Warm, just a touch too much, but not enough to be annoying. Soft as Mother's touch, tender as love.) Of home and other things...

Later, mockingly, Sync had dared called him "Sacred Flame". Nursing burnt feet all the while, the youngest God General had been a fool and more than a fool to duck into the light. Attempting to seek sanctuary in the range of Asch's fonic artes, having to choose between the claws and the light he'd chosen the light... And was punished accordingly. Thus, the "Sacred Flame" rejoinder delivered in a smart ass tone, all designed to get a rise out of the red head.

Something that could be reported to Van to get Asch on some sort of punishment detail of course. I was all so painfully obvious. Sync ached to tattle, and Asch wasn't going to comply.

To words that normally would have started a fight Asch shrugged, polishing his sword, musing over this knick and that on its edge. With a curse Sync stormed off, and Asch didn't bother to watch him go. He was... bemused at the golden flicker that he spied amongst the green. The blur of color that marked his eyes amongst the reflection.

For once, just this once, he believed.

He was the Flame, the Light, for he had called and the fires had come.

Of hell, or heaven, he hardly cared.

 _Sacred_ could cut both ways, after all.

10) Light Spear Canon

"Spin like a cheagle, sting like a bee!" Urushi hooted.

"Round and round she goes, where _ever_ he lands nobody knows." York giggled.

"Seriously Cardinal" Noir whimpered, nursing her aching head in her hands. "You're making me dizzy just watching."

The occasion? Post consumption. Of what, you ask? Well quite a few shots of Rocket Fuel Tequila, more shot glasses that could be conveniently counted were scattered about the floor, some half full, most not. How many? Well counting coherently was beyond them _all_ at this point, so that sum was ever a mystery. As for the location... it was Nam Combodia, the Wing's Meeting room. And the result when all was added together, when all was said and done... Well the ceiling became holey, not holy, but _hole-y_ as "Light Spear Canons" smashed through the roof and made it look like swiss cheese.


	3. 11 - 14

Of Ash and Ruin, part3

11) Devil's Inferno

While useful in combat (a touch slow, but devastating in a vicious sort of way) it double as practical. As a fire starter it was better than a tinder, spared him the indignity of rubbing of two pieces of wood together and praying that friction and the mercy of the wind would be enough, and it could (if used with utmost care) be used to dry clean his uniforms. Quickly, dry clean, always good when running about the world. Another plus was that when wood was scarce and he wanted say... toast, or toasted sandwiches, he could use the Arte to cook.

12) Fang Blade Havoc

Like a hand in a glove the attack glowed from one move to the other. Leap with blade extended, sweep sword up as you ascended, descend with the boot leading. It came without forethought, learning, or effort. Right as could be, it was a suitable tech, efficient and both vicious and just a touch cruel.

13) Fang Blade Rage

"The trick," he'd explained to his curious Master with a shrug that set the young Cantor's priestly robes to rustling, "is all in the leap. You leap only so high, lead the victim higher than your own ascent with the sweep of the blade. It's pivotal that you land first. Before touching down you have to have the Raging Blade charging so that when the victim falls you can easily release."

Tapping his finger against perused lips, Asch the Bloody considered his roommate in Daath's medical center. Something like pity touched his face as the Lion groaned and writhed on his cot across the room. Still, pity or not, the misplaced noble's next word came and with them came a smile.

"If Largo hadn't bent over double when my blade slashed him the blast would have got him in the chest, not in the head. Considering the thickness of the Black Lion's skull he should be fine. Concussed," Asch amended, brightly, "but fine."

14) Lightning blade

"God General Asch the Bloody is being delayed." Sync explained with a vicious smirk.

To that Arietta giggled, giggles became odd sounding "murf"s and snorts as she clapped one hand over her traitorous mouth. Even Legretta, cool untouchable Legretta, cracked a smile at Sync's understatement. To that, Van rose an eyebrow, but did not rise to properly glare down at his giggly underlings.

"Am I missing something?" Van asked cooly, hoping that by tone alone he could stem any other shows of... immaturity.

"The F... Fon tech machines that malfunctioned were destroyed." Largo reported dutifully, the Black Lion's voice was half choked with laughter, his lips were twitching wildly, so much so that Van half thought that the man's expression might be some sort of precursor to a seizure.

"Then where's Asch?" Strained silence and smothered smiles were their response. Heaving a sigh, Van snapped the obvious destination and perhaps got closer to the source of their cheer for those poorly hidden smiles got a little wider all around. "The medical wing?" Van grated out. "Was he wounded during the operation and sent to the medical wing?"

To that Sync coughed sharply and Arietta giggled despite the hand. To the children's continued show of mirth Van's patience with his subordinates trickled between his fingers, almost fully spent. Fingers drumming a restless tune on the arm of his chair, the Commandant waited. Waited for an explanation, or for some sanity to come back into his underlings. All he received was evasion. Legretta studiously studied the ground, Arietta and Sync snickered like adolescences in the throes of their first practical joke, and Largo let out a booming laugh that he couldn't turn into a cough in time. Sensing the lethally low level of patience in his superior, Largo set one hand on Arietta's shoulder, the other on Syncs, and choked out something about "watching the children". They quick marched out, and when the door to Van's Belkend office hissed closed they burst out in to wild laughter.

Only Legretta remained, chewing her lips to avoid laughing, and pointedly _not_ looking at her superior.

"He's capable of summoning the second fonons as lighting while attacking with his sword simultaneously." Legretta reported, perhaps imaging some tenure of concern to Van's face when he looked up sharply at that startling revelation, she hastened to assure. "He's fine, just... frizzled."

Not quite understanding Van tipped his head in mute inquiry. To that Legretta continued, or rather elaborated.

"Well sir..." A cough, eyes that almost settled on him skittered away. "As Arietta said during the time of the... incident... he looks like a... a Liger having a bad fur day."

"Frizzled.." Van repeated dully.

"Yes sir, very much so... The... the hair you understand. It's so long and standing all on end and all..."

Closing his eyes with a irritated sigh, Van smirked despite himself. It was the closest he'd gotten to laughing in years and years.

"A Liger having a bad fur day?" Van repeated slowly, carefully, least his expressionless facade shatter under the force of budding sniggers.

"He's got another foot or two form the experience, at least until the hair settles." Legretta reported dutifully, eyes dancing though she did not quite _dare_ to laugh aloud.

"How?" Van managed, daring nothing more, knowing if he did he _would_ laugh.

"He missed."

 


	4. 15 - 18

Of Ash and Ruin, part4

15) Rending Havoc

Why? curiosity perhaps. It was hardly an effective of efficient arte. He'd just opened up with the move on the Replica at Yulia city on a whim. He was... curious to see if the Dreck was smart enough to avoid the obvious motions of the manuviour. That idiot of course ran _right_ into the uppercut and got kicked in the head as Asch descended. When all was said and done Asch grimaced, triumphant, but aching. Or rather, to be more exact, his foot hurt. The Dreck had a damned thick skull.

16) Raging Havoc

Rage blast and havoc strike. An attack that threw the enemy back followed by a move that _needed_ them to stay close to work. Resting in his spartian quarters Asch mulled over the contradiction, tried to recall where the move had come from... It was almost as if some higher power, some greater force dying from lack of creativity said to itself "well why not string the two together and see what happens". With a grunt Asch gave up, luckily for him there was an all powerful higher power that he could blame for this spot of stupidity.

In times like this (though he'd never tell) he was glad that there was such a being he could blame on such lapses of thought. It spared him from having to dig too deep in his own flaws to find answers to the various stupidities he'd endured thought his whole life.

17) Rending Blast

After seeing the move Gingi wondered. Rending wasn't that some kind of well.. slashing motion. Knives rended, claws rended... The world brought forth images of horrible tears, rips of the flesh due to the will of various monsters... but blasting (and this is where the contradiction came in) was always the result of a fontech machine that generally left smoking craters in the ground after the fuse went out.

Unable to coincide the two images the piolet considered asking Asch about it.

Then he recalled Asch's generally homicidal turn of personality lately.

Deciding silence was golden the piolet let the question drop with a sigh.

18) Rending Fang Blade

"Umm. Asch..." Tugging his beard Urushi bit his lip as the sullen God General stormed out of the Sherry hill Sephiroth. "What'd I say?"

"Juggling?" York snickered, easily amused like always he repeated his previous comment, voice going a bit shrill about the edges. " _Juggling_?"

"Well, think 'bout it." Urushi huffed. "Tosses 'em up again and again, ain't that a type of juggling?"

"It's an attack." York chuckled and chided all at once. "Involving sword and artes and..."

"It's juggling." Urushi constantly cut in. "Think 'bout it. First hit tosses 'em up..."

Considering how well Urushi was going at it, Noir decided not to answer the squat man's "What'd I say?" comment. The way they were going at it Asch would explain it all in good time.

Probably with a graphic example involving "juggling" her team mates, but well...

Noir honestly couldn't say that they hadn't asked for it so she wouldn't interfere.

 


	5. 19 - 21

Of Ash and Ruin, part5

19) Slag Assault

A great attack, decent range, but it did hells to the floor.

20) Swallow Fury

Fury and flying, it was a little of both. Sword swinging, feet kicking, he ascended with his foe. Bright red blood falls at each injury, a sick, sticky, crimson rain.

It's the accumulation of all he's learned.

Strike from behind. Mercy is weakens. Never hold back, ever.

And when it works, it works beautifully. It's a cruel sadist's kind of beauty, but despite how degenerate, it's there.

And when it fails, it fails spectacularly. Leaving him horribly vulnerable, slashing at nothing but air…

And the riposte, when it comes on those rare instances he misses. It's cruel, yet seeped and sticky with justice. After all, a foe so ruthless as to go so far as to hit from the back, with eyes alight and with such a horrid grin... It must only be right to return the favor, or so the enemy always assumes.

Such is justice served, an eye for an eye, a sadistic kind of justice.

But despite its twisted breed, it's a justice of kind, and it's there.

And that's all that matters.

21) Guardian

It all came down to definitions:

"The action of guarding is fore going aggressive action in the favor of defense. A guardian is one who protects another. The nature of a guardian must be altruistic. To protect another requires a sacrifice of the self. Be it merely the stemming of one's actions to remain or the taking of a wound to protect. There is some loss in the act of guarding, be it choice, blood, or self."

A warning...

"It's a state, a kind of forced tranquility that extends about yourself engulfing a little span of the world. It blunts damage, but does not stop it in full, and once you start you can't take it back until it's over. To initiate the Arte you can neither move, nor dodge, nor attack, or cast Fonic Artes." Tugging at his nose, York of the Dark Wings considered Cardinal from the edge of his vision. Watched as the young man's face twisted from confusion to incredulous in a heartbeat.

"Forced tranquility?" Came the question, the challenge, expected York sighed.

The easy things were the hardest to explain sometimes.

"Not quite the contradiction it seems at first glance, Call it meditation. Cooling down. Willful containment than dissipation of rage. Those are the more mundane forums of Guardian. Regardless of how it's used all the forms require one thing. Reflection, acceptance, surrender. You don't whistle and it comes, there's no "I need to live through this hit so I'll do it to save my life." The names the thing you know. No controls, no control. Period."

The eye that wasn't covered squinted, took up the sober Cantor's expression, and the thief's beaky face had no hint of smile, or anxiety, or anything.

"Still wanna learn?" He deadpanned.

To that Asch nodded. "It might be useful someday to know how cast the Arte…"

"No." York corrected coolly, clearly the boy wasn't listening. "You'll be used, there's no _use._ You're used, that's all."

Silence, then, a thoughtful one as Cardinal considered…

"You still wanna learn?"

To that Asch smirked. "Do I have a choice?"

"Nope."

"Because it'll come if it wants to, use me as it needs to, and ditch me when I need it most."

"That's "Guardian" in a nutshell." York confirmed with a wry grin.

"That's crazy." Asch grumbled.

"Who said you altruistic types were sane to begin with?"

"Sh…Shut up!" Asch flared.

 


End file.
